Just Pru

by Anne Pfeffer

  “We’re cleared to go back,” she said to Adam. The fire was out, and though work would continue on the fire-ravaged west side of the building, residents of the unharmed eastern side could go to their apartments. Adam and Ellen were across-the-hall neighbors with intact homes; they were now taking in refugees.

  A little flicker of hope arose. Maybe I could get one of these nice people to help me, at least for tonight.

  “I’ll put two in my bed,” Ellen announced, “and two in my sleeper sofa. The rest on the floor.”

  “I can take five people,” Adam said. “Six, if someone’s willing to sleep on the balcony.”

  A guy raised his hand. “I’ll sleep with Ellen.”

  She was unamused. “In your dreams, Richard.”

  I was pretty sure Richard had just not-very-discreetly checked out my braless condition and my rear end for good measure. I felt my face get red. I wasn’t pretty (at least I didn’t think so), and I wasn’t thin. Quite the opposite. Like a road in the mountains, my body should have come equipped with signs that said Curves Ahead. And my hair lived a life of its own on my body. A mass of curls and waves and tendrils, it went everywhere, like ivy.

  I did what I could to be invisible. I wore dark, loose clothes and tied my hair up, but still... It creeped me out the way some men looked at me.

  “Krista?” Ellen said to the beach-babe. “You mind sharing a bed with me tonight?”

  A friendly negotiation went on, as people and sleeping spaces got divvied out. A few minutes passed, and no one had spoken to or looked at me. What if all the spaces got filled? My throat was dry and scratchy, and my shyness pressed down on me like a physical weight. Adam stood nearby.

  Plucking up every ounce of my courage, I squeaked out the words, “Excuse me. Do you still have that vacancy on your balcony?”

  “I can take the balcony,” he started to say, but Ellen interrupted him.

  “She should be with me.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “She’s got a cat. She needs food for him and a litter box.” Ellen’s voice made it clear the subject was settled. “Come on,” she said to me and started off.

  I picked up the cat carrier and followed her, breathing deeply and hoping that somehow I would keep myself from flying apart into a hundred million pieces.

  Chapter Three

  From Pru’s Journal:

  Dr. Abbot and I didn’t once discuss what to do if your home burned down. Looks like I’m going to have to rely on a general problem-solving model. You know, identify the problem, list solutions to the problem, and so forth.

  I was never good at that.

  **

  We stood in Ellen’s kitchen filling our glasses from the filtered water dispenser. Water seemed to be about all Ellen consumed, as her refrigerator held only a lemon and a box of baking soda. Chuck, who had taken off the second we opened the carrier, was nowhere in sight.

  I had saved him and my journal, yet never thought of the cash in my backpack, the only money I had. It was now probably a pile of ashes. As a bead of sweat rolled down my spine, Ellen spoke to the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Potemkin, who I’d seen in the courtyard. They were smudged with smoke and looked very small, standing together, holding each other’s arms.

  “I’m giving you and Harold my bedroom,” Ellen told the woman.

  “Oh, no you mustn’t…” Mrs. Potemkin wore sparkly old-fashioned rings, a bracelet with purple stones, and a blue dress that would never be clean again.

  “I insist,” Ellen said. “Pru will stay here with you while I get you some towels.” She bustled off.

  I stood there, not knowing what to say.

  Mr. Potemkin looked around vaguely, as if he didn’t know where he was. His neatly knotted tie disappeared down into a buttoned sweater vest. His wife, visibly shaken, dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

  “He’s not well, I’m afraid. My heavens, he doesn’t know what he’s doing most of the time!” Mrs. Potemkin’s voice rose, sounding almost hysterical.

  I nodded, hoping that feeble response would be good enough.

  “We live in Apartment 403, very near the fire,” she told me. “We were fortunate to get out when we did.”

  My head pounded and sweat pooled on my neck and shoulders.

  Now that Mrs. Potemkin had started talking, she didn’t seem able to stop. “I’ve never seen you before,” she went on in her quavering voice. “What apartment are you in?”

  Was I the only person in the world who could live right next door to someone for two months and not be noticed once? I was about to tell her that I lived in 402 when Ellen zoomed back. I’d never seen anyone move as fast as she did.

  “Here you are, Bernice.” Ellen held out some towels. “You and Harold go ahead and use the bathroom. And make yourselves comfortable in the bedroom. I’ll get the others settled.”

  I marveled at how easily she seemed to do things, getting towels and organizing people like it was nothing. “Are you alright, Pru?” she asked, her eyes filling with concern..

  “It’s just… I don’t have any of my things,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

  “What do you need?” Ellen seemed to take seriously her responsibilities as a hostess of refugees.

  I wouldn’t have told her, except it felt like ants were crawling up and down my arms, biting me. “Medication,” I admitted. “It’s for anxiety. And depression.” I thought longingly of my pills. They were the colors of summer—a pale baby blue one, same as the sky, and a lozenge in cheerful green and white, like striped lawn chairs.

  “Hmmm. Maybe Adam takes those.” Ellen punched a button on her phone. “Yo, Adam. Pru here’s in need of pharmaceutical assistance.” She repeated to him the names I’d given her. “He does! He’ll give you a few of his.”

  She hung up. Her eyes swept over me as I sweated and brushed the imaginary ants off my arms. “Anything else?”

  I licked my lips and lowered my voice. “A bra. Size 36D.”

  Ellen pondered the problem. “Give me a few minutes. Would you feed the cats while I’m gone?”

  “Sure.” I made my voice sound hearty and confident, while my mind contemplated the hugeness of the task.

  I can’t do this.

  Dr. Abbot’s voice. Yes, you can. Break it down into its parts.

  That was the advice for dealing with impossibly large, difficult jobs. First, I would have to take, say, six steps to reach the pantry. Second, open the door. Third, find the cat food.

  I laid my journal on the kitchen counter. Already my concentration was flagging. Think.

  A can opener. I needed a can opener.

  The drawers in Ellen’s kitchen were seemingly filled with boulders, but huffing and puffing, I got one open. It held a phonebook, notepad, pens, and other things that weren’t can openers. I closed the drawer. I dragged a second one open.

  One spatula, a bread knife, three corkscrews.

  Tears came to my eyes. I bit my lip, willing myself to concentrate.

  “Pru?” Ellen stared at me, a Ziploc bag in her hand. It held my dear friends in their festive colors, four of each.

  I would have recognized them anywhere.

  I sniffled and bit back my tears. “I couldn’t find the can opener.”

  Ellen pursed her lips then pointed to a chair at her small breakfast table. “Sit.” She handed me a glass of water and the Ziploc.

  I gratefully swallowed one each of my precious stash of pills. Already, I felt a little better.

  Ellen’s phone rang. “Hey, Becca …. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.” As she spoke, she pulled out a little tub of cat food, peeled the lid off, and dumped it into a bowl. “I’ve gotta find a way to bring a dozen costumes on the bus, which is kind of suckful.” She listened for a moment. “We’re running through Act I from start to finish.” More silence, then a hiss of indrawn breath. She spoke rapidly. “Tell Blake if he doesn’t know his lines, he’ll be drawn and quartered and hung from the stoplight at Hollywood and Vine!” />
  She hung up, glowering. “Chow’s on!” she yelled to the unseen cats, placing the bowl in a corner. “Now, you come with me.”

  Dang. She had just fed the cats and kicked butt on the phone, all without even touching a can opener. Grabbing my journal, I followed her into the dining room. There, she put down some yoga mats, a sleeping bag, and a pillow in a corner, giving me a private sleeping alcove away from the three guys on the floor in the living room.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She handed me a large gray-green capsule. “This’ll help you sleep.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s herbal. Ancient Chinese recipe. Oh, and this is for you, too.”

  I opened the bag she handed me.

  “Size 36C was the best I could do,” she said. “It’s Krista’s.”

  The beach babe. Her bra was black and lacey, nothing like the thick, white things I wore. I nodded, too tired to speak. I swallowed the pill and crawled into the sleeping bag, journal and all.

  “Do you want your cat?”

  “You’ll never find him.”

  She disappeared and returned a moment later with a squirming Chuck. Overjoyed, I opened the top of my sleeping bag. He immediately wiggled in next to me and began a rumbling purr.

  “Thank you,” I said again to Ellen, sure that if I looked hard enough I’d spot a halo above her head and shimmering wings on her shoulders. The pillow was soft and smooshy, just the way I liked them to be. With Chuck rumbling steadily beside me, I turned over in my sleeping bag. A corner of my journal poked me in the ribs.

  Goals for tomorrow. I groaned to myself. From the time of my “episode” five years ago, when my shattered parents brought me to him, begging for his help, Dr. Abbot had coached me on basic life skills. “Set goals for yourself,” he had urged me. “Something you have control over. Try to meet a small challenge every day.” Something like saying hello to a sales clerk or driving down an unfamiliar street.

  That’s when I started writing down my Daily Goals, a few small, concrete goals set every night, to be met the next day.

  But I was so tired.

  Just do it.

  Quickly, I did, using the pen attached to the journal. Obtain medications, clothes, new place to stay.

  As I fell into sleep, grotesque black winged creatures tried to storm the fortress of my brain, bringing death and terror with them. I was fortified by chemicals, exhaustion, and ancient Chinese wisdom. Somehow, my brain drove the demons away, at least until tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  From Pru’s Journal:

  I had a favorite fantasy when I was younger. In my fantasy, I went to a real school with other kids. I rode the bus, carried a lunch pail, and had two girl friends named Brittany and Chelsea. They renamed me Tiffany, because, as they put it, “You are so not a Prudence!”

  **

  I woke up with my right cheek flattened against Ellen’s hardwood floor. Squinting one eye open, I made out a pool of sunlight, then the vague tinkle of wind chimes. Chuck had left me to go brood in some new hiding place.

  Automatically, I took inventory of my mental state. For now, not bad, considering the circumstances. No ants on parade, no sweaty downpours.

  My parents. They would expect to speak with me today. They would call my cell at four o’clock, as they did every day, and if I didn’t answer, they would panic and start phoning the authorities. My cell phone, of course, was in my ruined apartment, probably incinerated or drowned. I’d have to be sure to call them first.

  I sat up, stretched, and cast an eye around the dining room, where I’d been sleeping. On the nearest wall were framed posters for plays from the UCLA Drama Department: The Onset of Madness, Execution at Dawn, Sorrow’s Sister. They all said, Written by Ellen Price. I hadn’t heard of them, but then my taste ran more to the heart-warming and inspirational.

  Ellen had art on most of her walls, although it was in a different style from the Norman Rockwells that Dad had let Mom hang in our living room. Actually, quite a different style, I thought, as my eyes registered skeletons hanging from trees and a vulture picking at a carcass. A key hook on the wall by the front door caught my eye. Its unusual appearance made me pretty sure it was from a foreign country. I looked, then looked again. It was the figure of a naked man, and Ellen’s keys were hanging off of his… no way! I found myself giggling.

  It was obviously out of proportion. Not that I’d ever actually seen a man’s you-know-what in a state of, well, … but I wasn’t stupid. I mean, for sure it wouldn’t go all the way up to his chin.

  What else was there to see in Ellen’s apartment? A sheet covered her dining table, hiding a bunch of weird-shaped lumps. Last night I’d been too busy hyperventilating to notice. I stared at the lumps, unable to tell what they were.

  Of course, only a really tacky person would actually lift up the sheet and look underneath.

  I peered around to make sure I was alone. Silent as a ninja, I tiptoed over and took a peek.

  Holy macaroni! Goosebumps raised the hair on my arms.

  Holsters, pistols, machine guns, handcuffs, and leg shackles, along with piles of folded orange and olive green fabric.

  I threw down the sheet, thinking frantically. What did I know about Ellen really? She obviously did not support gun control. Did she belong to a para-military hate group? Did she shoot at people from rooftops? I was still alive, but what about that sweet old couple, the Potemkins? I pictured crime scene tape in the courtyard as a forensic team dug them out of the flowerbed.

  I had to find Chuck and get out of here. Oh, and I needed that bra, too. Standing up in a hurry, I caught sight of myself in the dining room mirror. After a night in the sleeping bag, the whole right side of my hair had ballooned outward and taken on a shape never before seen on a human head. I tried to flatten it with my hand, but that sucker wouldn’t go down for anything.

  How far would I get, running barefoot down the street in my nightgown, with lunatic hair, toting a cat and claiming to have discovered a secret cache of illegal weapons? Who would ever believe me?

  Darn. I was getting that fragile, about-to-tear-in-half feeling that always came over me when my body needed its meds. Where had I left the Ziploc?

  “Hey!” Ellen stood in the opening between the dining and living rooms.

  I jumped six inches.

  She had cleverly disguised her true identity as a homicidal maniac. She looked young and cute in simple skinny jeans, a sweater, and little, rectangular tortoiseshell glasses. Her hair was pulled back into a miniscule tuft. If anyone in this room looked like a psycho, it was me.

  I threw my hands up, stammering, “I didn’t see anything, I promise!”

  “Good, or I’d have to kill you.”

  I thought of all the things I’d never done, the places I’d never gone, but she was still talking. She nodded toward the table. “They’re props and costumes for my play. It’s called The Prisoner. The whole thing takes place in a maximum-security facility.”

  I remembered the posters on the wall. “You write plays?” My fear instantly morphed into awe.

  “Well, plays with aspects of improv and performance art. This one’s about how the human spirit can prevail under even the cruelest and most degrading of circumstances.”

  “Wow.” The closest thing I’d seen to that was a reality show called Worst Date Ever, but I didn’t think that counted.

  My head began to throb. Too much was happening too fast. What would I do today? Go back to Clayton? Dive into the waiting arms of my parents? Anything but that. Plus, I had my daily goals to meet.

  I took my meds and went off to the bathroom to put on Krista’s bra, which was intriguingly slutty. Its size-C cups immediately squeezed my size-D boobs up and together to create mega-cleavage. I allowed myself a few sexy poses in the medicine cabinet mirror, pursing my lips and giving myself sultry looks over my shoulder, then proceeded to find Ellen in the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” she asked.
“I picked up eggs and bread if you want to cook yourself some breakfast.”

  How did this wonder woman do all the things she did?

  “Oh, and here.” She handed me the Ziploc bag, which I’d left on the kitchen counter.

  “Thank you.” I filled a glass of water and gratefully downed my pills. “Where’s Chuck?”

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “Under the bed. Mimi’s been torturing him this morning, trying to get him to come out.”

  “Mimi?”

  “My cat. She’s just a baby, really. She thinks he’s a new toy for her to play with.”

  Even I had to smile, thinking of Chuck the curmudgeon trying to cope in those circumstances. I sat down at the table. I wanted to ask about the fire, but it was so unusual, and pleasant, to have a normal conversation with a girl near my own age that I held off.

  Ellen rinsed a plate in the sink. “So … why the name Chuck?”

  “Oh!” She’d think I was strange if I told her.

  “Lemme guess. It’s from that poem. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, and so forth?”

  “No.” I took a sip of water, looking for a way to change the subject.

  “Short for Charles?”

  I shook my head. Reluctantly I said, “Chuck’s his middle name.”

  “What’s his first name?” Ellen leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest.

  “Up.”

  A beat. “Upchuck?” Ellen’s laugh rang out.

  “It’s what he was doing when I met him.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Ellen guffawed. “You really are whack-a-doodle, aren’t you?” The way she said it wasn’t mean, though. It didn’t hurt.

  “All my life.” I shook my head ruefully.

  “Hah! There’s a lot of that going around!”

  Her phone rang. “Hey, Becca…. uh, huh… yeah….No, I agree.” She frowned. “That was totally insensitive of him…. You are not precious and inauthentic! ….The scene’s great.” A vertical line ran a groove between her eyebrows. “You know Blake’s full of shit…. Listen, we’ll talk more this afternoon, okay? Just remember, you’re awesome!”